Broken by chickenpox
So scared my hubby would fall asleep forever...
Watching my hubby, Jon, cradling our newborn son Harrison, my heart swelled. ‘He’s perfect,’ Jon, then 34, gushed, tears in his eyes.
It was December 2011 and we were so excited to start a family.
I’d met Jon through work. He was handsome, charismatic, funny. I knew he was The One. We moved in together within three months, married in 2009. And now little Harrison was our world. Only, in May 2013, Jon contracted chickenpox. He couldn’t remember if he’d had it as a kid. ‘I’ll soon beat it,’ Jon sniffled, as he battled the flulike symptoms. He avoided itching the spots – but, after three days, Jon had agonising pain in his shoulder, shooting down his arm. ‘It could be the start of nerve damage,’ his GP warned. It’s a complication of chickenpox in adults. Jon could ride it out and risk permanent nerve damage, or take anti-viral medication. The medicine would act like chemo – strip his immune system to reboot it. ‘I’ll take the tablets,’ Jon decided. We were warned the antivirals would wipe Jon out, but within 24 hours of his first dose, he was like death. ‘It’s like I’ve been hit by a ton of bricks,’ he groaned. He felt like his whole body was shutting down.
‘It won’t last,’ I promised him.
I was wrong. The spots disappeared, but Jon became bed-bound, sleeping 20-22 hours a day.
‘I feel like I’ll stop breathing at any moment,’ he gasped. I was beside myself. Jon was diagnosed with post-viral fatigue.
‘It’ll last a few weeks,’ one doctor said.
Soon after, we discovered that I was pregnant again.
We were thrilled. But with Jon off sick, exhausted, and my bump blossoming, it was tough.
Poor Harrison couldn’t really understand why Daddy couldn’t play with him.
‘He’s just very tired,’ I told him.
I was constantly ferrying Jon to appointments, as he wasn’t getting any better.
‘He just needs more time to recover,’ doctors said.
But he was still unwell in February 2014, when I went into labour.
Jon rallied to be there for our daughter Holland’s birth, cradling her after, like he had with Harrison.
But it’d zapped everything he had – and, after, he slept almost constantly.
‘I’m sorry I can’t help,’ he
said as I juggled a toddler and newborn.
Luckily, my mum, June, 65, was living in our annex, and on hand to help. Plus my sister, Kerrie, 38, was a big support, too.
But the following month, Jon was told he’d developed fullblown ME – chronic fatigue.
The cause was unknown, but it typically occurs after a viral infection.
I desperately wanted to help him.
But it was overwhelming, frightening and lonely for us both.
Ten months on, Jon briefly returned to his hedgefund job, yet he contracted endless infections.
By April 2015, he was collapsing daily, sweating excessively.
The fatigue came back, and it’d leave Jon barely able to breathe.
He was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, a rare, life-threatening autoimmune condition where your body doesn’t produce enough of the hormone cortisol, essential in regulating bodily functions.
It causes fatigue, muscle weakness, weight loss and a low immune system.
Usually it can be regulated with medication. But Jon’s case was too extreme. ‘I feel like I’m dying,’ he wept. In fact, we lived in daily fear he’d fall asleep and not wake up again.
One afternoon in April last
The fatigue came back and it’d leave Jon barely able to breathe
year, I took him a cup of tea.
The moment I walked in, I knew something was wrong.
Jon’s skin was white and blue, and he was barely breathing. Drawing in frightening, rasping gasps.
‘Jon!’ I cried, panic-stricken.
He’d slipped into a coma.
I called an ambulance, tried to start chest compressions.
‘Help!’ I cried, calling out to neighbours.
Suddenly, paramedics, doctors, medics rushed in.
At least eight surrounded the bed, inserting a breathing tube, doing CPR.
After what felt like forever, Jon took a big breath. He was alive. He came round, wideeyed, terrified.
After that episode, it happened again, and again – he was raced to Basildon A&E so often.
He started sleeping during the day, so we could monitor him.
His gag reflex stopped working, and sometimes he would wake up with his lungs filled with blood.
Terrifying.
‘I hate that I can’t be a proper dad,’ he said.
Jon missed out on so much – bedtime stories, chasing the children round the garden. It broke my heart. Desperate, he researched online, looking for any sort of magic cure.
Jon didn’t find one, but he did read about medicalassistance dogs.
‘It could be my lifeline,’ he told me.
A puppy could be trained to detect when Jon’s hormones got low, prompting him to take medication, alert someone if he fell into a coma and support him if he collapsed. ‘Great idea,’ I said. It would really change our lives for the better.
Charities provide them – but the waiting list was four years.
‘I can’t wait that long,’ Jon said.
It’d cost £16,000 to have a dog privately trained, so I launched a fundraising campaign online.
We’ve raised over £9,000 so far – enough to get started!
We’ve picked the perfect puppy – a Black Russian Terrier the kids have named Teddy.
It’s hard to believe chickenpox sparked all this. Destroyed my hubby’s health.
But Jon, now 39, and Teddy, 7 months, already have a close bond, and he’s started training.
It means Jon no longer has to live in fear.
And Harrison, 5, and Holland, 3, can finally have their daddy back.
Feeling desperate, he looked online for any sort of magic cure